


The Devil's Brew

by a_xmasmurder



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Grannies, Injury, James is a Dork, Mental rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:49:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which James Bond, international Man of Mystery, finds something formidable in the form of a little old lady and a bottle of...something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Brew

He's been walking for what seems like days to his scattered mind. He's not entirely sure where he's at, and he's certain MI6 is even less sure. He’s at loose ends, which if he is being honest with himself is essentially his natural state. He doesn't mind, not really. With nothing immediate on the table other than survival and extra time on his hands, he finds it hard to be concerned with the little things, like where his mobile ended up (probably somewhere over the Alps, dropped out of his pocket when he was dangling out of the side hatch of the cargo plane). He really has to switch airlines because that sort of service is unacceptable. He laughs a little mindlessly at his own little joke, which angers the wound in his side. He also couldn't care where his gun (which is probably on its way to the Atlantic by way of the Danube) and his only link to his current handler (the earpiece went the way his gun did about three hours ago) were at. In fact, the further he slogs through the thick forest, the further his thoughts are from the comforts of home.

It could be the blood loss, but he’s starting to have some nostalgic feelings about Switzerland.

He presses his hand harder into his side, blanking out the dull ache of the bullet wound as he veers around a thick birch and nearly tips into its buddy only feet away. According to the map in his head, the one he’d memorised three days prior, there should be a road somewhere in this vicinity. Fuck if he could find it, though.

He falls into the ditch almost as an afterthought.

It’s summertime and it’d just rained something fierce, so the standing water in the trench isn’t too rank, though his ruined suit is soaked through immediately and the blood that hasn't crusted into the expensive fabric swirls into the leafy mess. He can’t be too upset. It isn’t as if he hadn’t seen it coming. Well, no, he really hadn’t, actually. Completely missed the damned thing. No point in lying, there isn’t anyone around to see his nose growing. His laugh sounds hysterical to his ears, which is just as well since he’s operating on sleep that can be measured in minutes and should he mention the low blood volume again? He thought he'd already muttered that at a tree while resting. Damned bullets and their propensity of finding his flesh with all the determination of a dog on a scent trail. He doesn't actively go out of his way to get shot, it just happens. He pats his pockets absently, and doesn’t find his mobile. Where did it go? He's got to let someone know where he is, even if where he is is swimming in ditch water somewhere in Switzerland. Oh, wait. Plane. He has to remind himself of the Alps and then he shakes his head and levers himself out of the ditch with one arm, the other trapped against his side again.

Where is he, again?

He slaps his hand onto the pavement and grins. Ha. He's at a road. Hell, he’d known it’d be here. Success. He crawls to his feet and staggers across, ready for the slide down into the matching ditch on the other side. This water seems a bit murkier, and he makes a note to take Medical up on their offer to inoculate him against...well, whatever one can pick up from bad water. Knowing his luck, it’d be his death.

A vehicle stops behind him as he’s sitting/leaning/slumped against the grassy gradient contemplating just how many flus one would have to get to become a statistic. He turns his head, reaching for the Walther that isn’t there anymore (Danube, right). “Can I help you?”

“It seems like you need more help than me, young man.” An ancient woman makes her way cautiously out her car door, her wooden cane leading the way to the gravel shoulder. Her demeanor shouts ‘little German grandmum’, and despite the danger he simply relaxes and smiles, leaning his head back against the greenery.

“You may be correct.” He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun shining on his face. “Hospital?”

It’s the last thing he remembers saying.

**  
  
  
  
  
**

When he wakes up again, he still doesn’t know where his mobile or earpiece or gun are (Alps and Danube, but he can’t be arsed to remember exactly where), and now he’s missing his suit. And his pants. He can tell, because the soft blankets draped over him feel amazing on his thighs and hips.

 He tries to say, “Where are my pants?”, but it comes out more like a baritone with laryngitis. He clears his throat and tries again, with the results much the same.

The little lady from the road shuffles to his side with a glass of water. “Drink this. Small sips. Don’t gulp it -”

He ignores her and downs it in one go. His brain can’t reconcile the flavour and the bitterness and the burn with anything resembling water. He starts coughing, which makes the woman tut disapprovingly at him and makes the bullet wound throb even more disapprovingly. While he’s certain she hadn’t just poisoned him - maybe - he _is_ certain that he’s probably going to die.

“I told you not to gulp it down, young man.” She shakes one gnarled finger at him as he gasps for air. “It’s strong. Good for your health.”

Finally, he can say something. “...pretty sure I’m going to die…”

“No, no.” She tuts again and shoves another glass into his hand.

It has more clear fluid in it. He’s not about to test it to see if it’s water this time, and he stares at her for some explanation as to why she's trying to poison him, using the darker of his stares. Instead of creeping away as expected, she stares right back at him, with an expression that quite possibly has more steel woven through it than his own. He finds himself taking the glass meekly and sniffing at it. “Water?”

“Yes.” She shakes her head. “Silly man.”

It only occurs to him after he’s drained this new glass (which was, indeed, water, thank god, though he still doesn't take her advise of drinking slowly) that she is speaking to him in perfect English. He pushes himself into a sitting position, ignoring the ache in every muscle he possesses. “Where am I?”

“Outside Linthal.” She’s abrupt in voice, but the touch of her cold hand is kind and soft, and the fat cat using his right leg as a leaning post tells the tale of a nurturing nature. It’s refreshing, in a decidedly messed up way, that she seems almost like his M. It shouldn't comfort him so, but it does. He feels comfortable, almost safe, here in this lady’s home - maybe it's her home; could be an evil mastermind’s lair too, but who in their right mind would have a cross-stitch of a little girl with a watering can in their lair? - and that is something he has not felt in ages.

“Linthal.” He rewinds the map in his head and looks at the whole of Switzerland. Ah, there he is. “Good. You -” He is about to ask if she has a phone he could use, but something a bit more pressing crosses his mind. “Did you take me to a hospital?”

“No, no. No need.” She waves her hand at him, much like Q likes to do when he’s being difficult. “Nothing a bit of gauze and ointment can’t fix.”

He is pretty sure that his wound needs more than a motherly touch and some ointment, so he lifts the quilt covering his torso. “Oh.” His belly is swathed in white, and though it aches more now that he remembers it, it wasn’t bleeding through or seeping or even that warm to the touch as he prods the gauze gingerly. “Linthal,” he muses. “Sounds good.” He’s afraid to ask if she has a phone. Instead, he tries to get out of the bed, fuck nudity. She's the one that took his clothes off, she can deal with his naked body. Her cool hands rest on both of his broad shoulders as she pushes him back down with all the care of a grandmother and the tenacity of a mother bear when he invariably resists.

“You need rest, silly man. Lay back down. Can you eat?”

He grunts. “James.”

“Sorry?” She looks at him.

“My name. James. James Bond.”

“Oh. Well, then, Mr. Bond -”

“James is fine, mum.”

She smiles down at him, and he feels even more at home. “Alright, James. I have stew on the fire. You will eat some.” It isn’t a question, and he’s thinking about saying no out of spite when his stomach derails his plan by growling quite loudly. He rolls his eyes and settles back on the pillow.

**  
  
  
  
**

She does have a phone, and he uses it to call Q at the office. The other end buzzes relentlessly, and he twirls the curly wire like a little school girl calling her boyfriend. Finally, the insufferable man picks up. “Hallo?”

“Good afternoon.”

Q inhales softly, catching the code for ‘not a secure line’. “Is it? Where have you been? You missed your client.”

(Damn. He got away, how does that always happen?)

“I’ve been busy with the charter company. Seems they want to drop me from the flight register. I might need a ride home, if you could manage. I lost the keys and my mobile.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Swimming.”

Q sighs over the line. “Well, we’ll have to bill that to your expense account. Do you have an alternate?”

He stops twirling the cord. Does he have an alternate...oh, _shit_. “Not at the moment. I could get one.” Something’s going down, probably involving his target. But Alina’s feeding him stew and noodles and more of that godawful witch’s brew of an alcohol, and he’s feeling mighty fine at the moment. Not to mention he'd have to steal Alina's car, and he'd rather not do that. “Do you need to contact me soon about the contract?”

“Mmm, possibly. Andrew’s in the area, he could pick you up and fill you in on what your client has been up to.”

He grins. Alec Trevelyan is in town, probably looking for him. Perfect. “Good. Got a number I can reach him at? I’m a little indisposed, might need some coffee before we go look at the material.”

A harder grunt (Q’s worried. _Rightly so, I’m afraid_ ). “His usual. Just let him know about the coffee, he might be able to whip something together for you.” Alec's got a medical kit. Excellent.

There’s no mention of location, so he assumes Q’s already got him on satellite imaging. The bastard’s quick like that. “Sounds good. Talk to you when I get the contract settled.”

“Have a good one, Sterling.”

He hangs up, somewhat delighted at the old-style rotary phone. He turns to Alina, who has another glass held out for him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Are you trying to kill me?”

Her laugh is dry and crackly, and she takes another drag off of one of his cigarettes. “No, James. Drink it, it’s good -”

“You keep saying it’s good for me, but I can feel my intestines melting.” He’s starting to feel a little fuzzy, and he grins at her. “It’s damned good, but it’s the devil.”

“All good alcohol is the devil, young man. It’s what you do with the devil that decides what is good or bad in the world.” She holds up her glass. “This can kill whatever bugs you have in your belly from that water in the ditch by the road.”

He doesn’t remember drinking the water, but what the hell, why not? He knocks back the new glass.

**  
  
  
  
  
**

He can’t feel his tongue. He can’t be arsed to care, either, because he’s having fun. Alina’s pulled out some sort of Scrabble game, though it’s all in Cyrillic. “How’d you...you know Russian?” He ‘s pretty sure she’d been speaking Italian at some point.

“Enough to make this an interesting game, James.” Alina is smiling widely.

“I know Russian.” He gestures widely with his half-full glass. “I know a Russian, too. He’s a good man.” He’s not drunk enough to tell state secrets, but he’s flying high and not giving a shit. “England’s a right bitch. I like it here. No one’s shooting at me.”

She smiles at him as if he’s her own grandchild. “That’s a good thing.”

He blinks. “ ‘m tired.” And yeah, he is tired, because he yawns and the room slides to the left a bit. Could be the injuries. Blood loss. Danube. Alps. Ditch water and missing transmitters. But he really wants to go to bed. He gets up from the table and sort of flops onto the lumpy mattress. “If you kill me while I’m asleep, tell Alec he can’t have my PS3. Provided he shows up.”

He can’t tell if he actually tells her any of this. Maybe he dreams it instead.

**  
  
  
  
  
**

He wakes up in a sterile room, hooked to a single I.V. and a heart monitor. Alec is sitting by his side, thumbing through a sensational tabloid. He squints at a page, then snorts and looks up.

“Apparently the Queen is learning how to skate. She’s being taught by Tony Hawk, whoever the hell that is.”

“ ‘m tired.”

“Yeah, figured as much. You’ve been out for a couple days. Medical put you under to fix your side, then kept you there to let you rest.”

He shifts his shoulders, surprised at the lack of soreness. He hums. “Alina?”

“Enjoying a well-earned vacation in Hawaii.”

He hums again. “Mission?”

“Completed.”

He smiles. “You are a national treasure, Alec. Always cleaning up after my cockups. Don’t let Alina fool you. It’s not water.”

“I know. She can out-drink me.” Alec snorts. “She’s adorable. I’m adopting her.”

James Bond leans back and finally closes his eyes in a conscious decision instead of a need or drunken stupor.

**  
  
**


End file.
